


Sing Me Sweet

by webcricket



Category: Supernatural
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-05
Updated: 2017-09-05
Packaged: 2018-12-24 06:23:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12006924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/webcricket/pseuds/webcricket
Summary: Drabble written for @waywardmoeyy’s Moeyy’s 1K Fluff Fest Challenge with the prompt – “It’s been such an ugly day. I need to hear something beautiful.” The reader and Castiel have a super special fluffy tradition. Established CastielXReader. Warning for a description of nausea (in relation to physical shock). Reunion. Hurt/Comfort. Fluff.





	Sing Me Sweet

You practically tore the motel door off its rusted bolts in your blind haste to unlock it. Amazingly, the stubborn hinges held fast against a second brutal assault when, having succeeded in gaining entry, you then proceeded to slam it shut. The entire façade of the dingy and probably termite-infested motel shook with the venting force of your frustration. The glass and wood framed faded print of a random field of sunny flowers meant to add an uplifting spot of color to the otherwise grey and peeling walls shimmied free of its flimsy hanger and shattered in a cascade of glitter on the threadbare stained carpet within. A garbled man’s voice a few doors down shouted scornfully through the thin walls at the impolite midnight ruckus. You didn’t have the energy to yell any choice words in return.

_Castiel_! you prayed, sinking on the edge of the creaky protesting bed. The adrenaline might coursing your veins from the violent altercation with the shifter that had held bodily shock at bay for the last half hour was rapidly diminishing. The room spun violently and your stomach churned, biliously threatening to empty its contents onto your shoes. Staring at the stains on the carpet between your feet, you realized you would not be the first person in this particular room to succumb to this unhappy circumstance.

Sucking in an agonizing breath, you steeled your resolve to survive with or without the absentee angel’s aid. Peeling the blood-soaked vintage orange Fanta t-shirt over your head, you peered down to prod the edges of the stinging knife wound slashing your ribcage with tentative fingertips. You grimaced at the fresh flow of crimson oozing from the gash, attempting quite uselessly to stem the gush with the wadded sticky garment in your hands.

Sitting there, the ebb of life seeping from your ripped flesh with every heartbeat, your thoughts centered on the angel. You harbored little hope he would show, and yet you still hoped. You attributed this optimistic outlook to the shock muddling your senses. After all, he left months ago, despite your pleading protests, to tend to Heaven’s problems and you hadn’t heard from him since. When you last spoke to them, the Winchesters hadn’t heard from him in weeks. _And_ , you thought ruefully, _that was weeks ago_. Fingers fumbling numbly to retrieve the cell in your jean’s pocket to call an ambulance, the phone slipped from your slick red grasp and tumbled to the floor. You unwisely dove after it, weakly collapsing into a crumpled groaning heap upon the floor. You prayed again, _I’m hurt Cas. It’s bad. I’m scared. I…_ ”

“I’m here.”

You didn’t hear the ruffle of feathers denoting his arrival or the concerned husky gravel in his tone over the tinny shrill of the pulse throbbing desperately in your ears.

Strong arms winding behind your back and beneath your knees, he effortlessly lifted your limp frame to lay you gently onto the bed. Palm pressed to your bleeding torso, the familiar soothing heat, radiant glowing light, and ticklish electric tingle of his grace mended the gaping laceration, surged renewed life into your hollow veins, and finally washed relief over every inch of your skin to heal the cut on your lip and erase the purplish bruises beginning to blossom on your limbs. Withdrawing his grace, he balanced on the bed beside you, tenderly brushing the clammy sweat-matted hair from your forehead.

You extended your trembling fingers to caress and cup his worry-lined face, inadvertently smearing blood across the prickly unshaven skin of his cheek, murmuring, “You came.”

“Of course I came,” he clutched at your hand, holding it warmly between his own to quiet you.

“I thought,” you stammered, closing your eyes against the looming threat of tears, “I thought you’d be too busy up there for me.”

The implication that he had not made clear to you how important you are to him before he left for Heaven deeply pained him. He did not wish start another argument regarding the matter and again depart on uncertain terms. “What happened?” he asked, choosing to ignore your remark. “Why are you alone? Where are Sam and Dean?”

You disregarded his well-meaning questions, not wanting him to scold you for recklessly working a string of dangerous cases solo. After so much time had passed, the last thing you wanted to do was quarrel now that he was here. “It’s been such an ugly day,” you whispered, damp lashes fluttering open to gaze imploringly into his sparkling blues. “I need to hear something beautiful.”

A small smile alighted the angel’s parted lips, his affectionate expression reflecting wetly with brimming tears. Those very words had kindled a cherished custom of your relationship – an intimate ritual begun as friends, and continued as lovers, which strengthened your bond and brought you closer with each repetition. It was the shared sentiment he missed most of all in his absence from you.

The first time you spoke those words to him after a bad hunt – the fitful night he stayed by your bed until you drifted to sleep and lingered there until dawn to keep nightmares at bay – he told you the creation story of the lowly earthworm, that underappreciated slimy coil of pure digestive muscle tirelessly toiling in the earth night and day to nurture all that thrives above the ground and without whose thankless sustenance there would be none of the beauty we know of life.

The evening you said them after a nasty salt and burn – the evening he boldly held your hand walking back to the Impala and blushingly kissed you in front of the respectively whistling and whooping Sam and Dean – he told you of the haunting ocean songs that whales sing to one another; their magnificent timeless odes echo through the seas across immense distances to reassure each other that, although they are far apart in a great empty expanse, they are not alone.

The night you sighed them weepingly after he nearly died at the hands of his kin – the night you first made love – he gazed adoringly into your eyes and simply uttered your name.

And tonight, reunited after too long apart, he shrugged aside the trench coat and, loosening his tie, toed off his shoes to climb into the bed with you. Wrapping his arms taut around your shoulders to nestle you meltingly against his body, he nuzzled his chin into your hair to breathe in your comforting scent. Holding you thus, he hooked a finger beneath your chin, angling your world-weary countenance up to meet his own. Grimy motel walls receding away in a brightly illumined cushion of blue, the distant lost time between you dimming into no more than a faint glimmer of memory, he told you the story of an angel’s fall. Not his fall from grace, but his fall, halo over heels, into that most beautiful condition of all – love.


End file.
